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If mental scars
were rungs
on a ladder
It would
stretch up
into heaven
Anxiety wraps
itself around me,

like a coat that
doesn’t fit me

like a lover that
doesn’t love me

like a fire that
doesn’t warm me
I rewrote this poem because it felt unfinished.
rain drops fall upon her head
try push her to the ground
but she stands tall against it all
and strength and love are found

the torment and the cold
of the never ending drops
feed her very core with life
and eventually it stops

the hardships that we face
are not always as we see
sometimes they just happen
to be exactly what we need

the petals soaking wet
stem dripping down with tears
but still the flower stood
in lieu of all her fears

then the sun came out
as the rain began to cease
and her purpose came to light
and she enjoyed a life of peace
She worries about
everything,
real and imagined,
"what if this? What if that?"
I watched my
Mom
worry herself right
into the
grave one disastrous
December night.
My girlfriend doesn't care.
She wants me to
worry right along
with her.
And when I don't
she
gets angry.

My Dad said,
"They can **** us,
but they can't eat us."
I share this with her.
Nothing!
Just
worry, worry, worry.
Here is a link to my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ur5pZxbd7hE
I have combined my fishing adventures with poetry.  Good times.
It was the 'Glass Onion'
and it made us cry
when we knew for certain
that John would die.

Strawberry fields
were never forever
that was for sure
a lie.
Your eyes sang the song of loss
And I recognized the chorus
I was reading a book in a place no normal person would be. When I was accomponied by a lovely gal who had the same plans as me. We never spoke a word to eachother but I've never felt so understood.
I was a natural disaster
A hurricane
Volcanic eruption
A tornado
And you were pulled in

You should yell at me
Scream
Call me names
Tell me all the reasons you hate me
And I'll still love you anyway

It's karma,
I want forgiveness
And I don't deserve it
When you walk
on the moon in February, I take down
the clouds to become wet.

Your memory lingers.
I gather the monarchs to
play with my pain,

I am not sure, when the
dark moves on to give space to
imprisoned pain.
can hardly believe
so easy some are deceived
what demons conceive
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